Soul Mosaic

In spite of the very insular and controlled nature of our home, there was a wider circle of people in my life that offered some level of, if not support, at least distraction and moments of respite.

For one, there was our extended family in the form of grandparents and cousins, as well as school, church, and some family friends. I’ll speak about school, church, and friends in a bit.

In terms of family, I mentioned having grandparents who lived in Bridgeport and later in Stratford. Those were my father’s parents, and that whole family is a good example of the effects of intergenerational trauma. In a sentence, so much pain and dysfunction.

In fact, being there actually made our house seem normal by comparison. Years later, when I was in my last year of college, I lived with those grandparents for 12 months. I was doing my hospital internship for my medical laboratory degree, and the only way I could afford to do that so I could finish college was to live with them. I was there Sunday nights through Fridays for most of that time. You would think it would be a welcome break to be away from Dad this way. And in terms of being able to avoid him, it was. But these were the people who created my father, and frankly, by the end of the week, I was actually ready to go home. One time, I even drove home in a snowstorm just to get out of there.

There were some Saturdays when I was lucky enough to be home and Dad was busy elsewhere. This was especially true for a period in childhood when he would help one of my uncles with his TV business. Dad would be out for the afternoon, so peace would descend on our house.

Once my cleaning chores were done, I would try to tune the TV antenna just right to see if I could get reception for the New York City TV channels. These were the channels we watched in Bridgeport at my grandparents’ house, and I was determined to watch them at home, even if “just barely.”

For the most part, it was impossible since we were too far north for a good signal. But once in a while, conditions would be right so that I could at least HEAR the old movies they played in the afternoons, and if I was REALLY lucky, I might even be able to see snowy figures moving through the static on the TV screen. I would literally sit right in front of the screen, something that drove my mother crazy because there was a concern back then that the TV emitted too much radiation from its cathode ray tube. I don’t know if it was that big a deal, but for sure it could strain your eyes. But I wanted to watch my shows.

On Saturday afternoons, there were 3 main channels out of New York that did great old movies.

One of my favorite channels was WNEW-TV Channel 5. On Saturdays, they often played 1950s horror movies like “It Came From Outer Space” or ones based on the nuclear fears of the time. A couple of classics were “Fiend Without a Face,” about radiation-driven invisible brains attacking people, and the other was “Them,” about ants exposed to radiation from the Alamogordo nuclear tests. Somehow, they mutated into people-eating giant ants. While the military managed to destroy most of them, one queen managed to catch a train ride to LA and set up a nest in the Los Angeles storm sewer system. Of course, two boys wandered into the tunnels and were captured. Just before they were eaten, the movie’s hero and the military rescued them, but not before the hero became ant-lunch.

The other two channels to scope out were WOR-TV Channel 9 and WPIX-TC Channel 11. Channel 9 had the “Million Dollar Movie,” which could be anything from King Kong or Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, to Citizen Kane. And WPIX-TV Channel 11 could be counted on for old comedies.

There were also old Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, and my old favorite, The Thunderbirds. That was the show out of the UK, which used marionette figures as the heroes of the family-run group — “International Rescue.” They were based on a hidden island and had all kinds of rockets, submarines, and rescue equipment. I always had to look hard for some of those programs, because I was never sure what channels they might be on.

But the bottom line was that even if I could only “hear” these programs, they were my delight and relief on a Saturday afternoon. Yet another “Moment of Respite” to escape into.

If my parents didn’t have a fight on a Saturday, it would happen on Sunday, right after church. But then, right after church, I was fair game too. Especially the Sunday I declared my support for birth control, after the priest’s sermon that day demonized it. While my courage to stand up for my beliefs was admirable, you’d think I would have learned by then to just keep my mouth shut.

But it didn’t really matter what the trigger was. There would be a nasty fight on one of the weekend mornings, and after church was as good a time as any. He was miserable first thing in the morning on most days. Add to that having to dress up and go to Mass, and that only worsened his temperament.

Whatever the fight, it would end up with them in the bathroom and me at my bedroom wall listening to make sure he didn’t kill her this time. After the battle, he would storm out of the house, get in the car, and tear out of the driveway. That left our house in relative quiet while he was gone, except for the sounds of sobs or blowing noses. It was the stillness after a storm, like when the skies have unleashed their worst and now, energy depleted, they have nothing left to hurl at you.

On the bad Saturdays, there wasn’t usually much time for a respite. It was enough to just crawl into bed on Saturdays and try to get lost in daydreams under the covers until sleep overtook me.

There was no question that Dad was going to make me pay for “Doughnut morning rejections” and “Late movie avoidances.” Before Sunday Mass, he wouldn’t look at me or talk to me, the usual “silent treatment.” He would be personable with everyone we met there, but always avoided any eye contact with me.

Once we got home, he would start in with his barrage of questions — looking for something I did, or didn’t do, so he could start the fight. One time, it was the fact that I wore a sweater too short for me to church that morning. To him, that would be an affront and make him look bad to everyone else. It was like saying he wasn’t a good enough provider, and his family couldn’t dress properly.

That particular Sunday, we got in the house, and he literally ripped the sweater off my back and started yelling, and of course, coming at me. Mom ran interference, and I hid in my room. But eventually, once we had our big Sunday meal at noon, there would be no avoiding him.

He would fire questions at me. Glare at me across the table. I could barely eat, but I had to, or he would yell at me for that. I was so nervous, I could barely choke down my food. But the worst was yet to come.

After the meal and dishes were done, I would make a beeline for my room and bury myself at my desk. My hope was that if he saw me diligently at work on my homework for school, he would leave me alone. But that was a useless wish. On “payback Sundays,” nothing was going to stop him.

As I tried to concentrate, I’d hear his footsteps coming down the hall and stop outside my room. He would stand in the doorway and start peppering me with questions, or barking orders about something he wanted to see done the next week. Or he would just keep attacking me over some small infraction and not let it drop. My nerves were like elastic bands stretched out too far. After a few minutes of this, he would walk away.

I would just start to calm down when I’d hear him returning. Again and again we went through rounds of this, each time my nerves fraying more. Finally, he would decide it was time to escalate the situation, and he would come into my room. He’d whip open the closet door and start yelling about the mess in there with all of our shoes and toys.

Given that we only had two closets in the whole house, it was hard to store everything in there neatly. And since that closet was in my room, it was my fault if it wasn’t neat enough.

As he yelled at me, he was also grabbing toy boxes, shoes, clothes, everything in there, and flinging it out on the floor. Then he would storm over to my bureau, again guaranteed to be a mess.

Yanking drawers open, he would pull them out and empty everything onto my bed. He was in full Navy-inspection mode. It was one of his standard terror tactics, and he could always count on it to totally freak me out. I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare say anything. I just stood there and waited until he emptied everything. Then, like a military commander, he would bark at me to put everything back and make it neat.

And of course, that meant he would be able to return several more times. Some of his visits were to yell that I was being too slow, and others to inspect whether I did a good enough job.

By this point, I was an emotional disaster…on the inside. I cannot find the words that capture just how much a person’s nerves can shake on the inside and how tightly coiled they can get from repeated rounds of this emotional battering. But I just had to deal with it and not show any emotions. For sure, I definitely better not cry, look angry, or say anything. I was just supposed to take it – tough and stone-faced, no matter what I was feeling underneath.

Finally, at some point in the afternoon, after several rounds of him verbally and emotionally beating on me, my mother would finally say something like, “Why are you acting like this?”

She never said, “Why are you doing this to her?” She never said anything about me at all.

But once she had said that, he would finally leave me alone and retreat to his office.

By that point, my nerves were jelly. I was nothing but a quivering mess inside. I so wanted my mother to come over, to check on me. To see how I was, or if I was okay. I could even understand if she was afraid to say much to me. But I longed for just a glance from her, a smile, a look of concern. Anything. But no one came near me. She just stayed in the kitchen, a turned back.

One of the worst payback Sundays was July 20, 1969…the Apollo 11 Moon Landing night. The day had been pure hell. Rounds of verbal and mental abuse. But since it was summer, I didn’t even have homework I could pretend to be doing. And worse, since the astronauts landed on the moon that afternoon, that meant that instead of going to bed on time and finally getting a reprieve from him, we would be up later to watch them take their first steps on the moon.

While July 20th, 1969, was a landmark event for millions of people around the world, all I wanted was to be released so I could escape to my room. That one small step couldn’t come fast enough for me. A part of me realized that I should be feeling the awe and amazement of the moment. But the rest of me just couldn’t wait for that damned step to be over so I could just go to bed.

TRIGGER ALERT – Depictions of abuse. Please be aware.

Saturdays – The mixed bag

Saturdays. They were all over the place in terms of what went on.

The “normal” ones

There were actually some relatively “normal” Saturdays, such as the ones where we headed out on one of those family day-trips, or out of town to do clothes shopping or bulk meat purchases. Some Saturdays, there were no fights, but this was rare. If it weren’t Saturday, then the fight would be on Sunday.

Sometimes we didn’t go anywhere but did chores. Or when we were young, the exciting thing was to accompany my dad and my grandfather to the dump…the 1960s name for a landfill. That was always exotic to drive out to the southern edge of town, get in line, and wind slowly up to the top of that hill, then be directed to back up into a wall of garbage, trash, and broken items. We weren’t allowed out of the car, and the place reeked, but still, it was fascinating to a young child.

Other times, Dad would decide it was a good day to try to teach our pet parakeet tricks. In a normal household, this might seem like a fun idea. It never was. First of all, our parakeet was terrified of Dad. Whenever he walked in the house, the bird would freak out, squawk, and fly into the sides of the cage. So Dad taking the bird into the bathroom to learn new tricks usually resulted in him getting more impatient and angry, and the bird screeching and flying into the walls

Afternoons could be calm on a “good-mood-day” for Dad. Especially in the summer, with the windows open and a breeze flowing through our apartment. He’d play his usual *Victory at Sea* or *Herb Alpert* record albums, and life would be relaxed. And the evenings sometimes included board or card games. Those days were the ones we lived for and savored. Those were the ones that made the others seem like a bad dream that would never come back.

Always, the weirdness…

But still, even on the good days, weirdness showed up.

TRIGGER ALERT – Reference to child sexual abuse

The back door closed, and the key turned in the lock. I bolted awake.

“God, no!” I’d overslept, and she was leaving.

It was Saturday morning. Mom would often go to a small local bakery — Baggish Bakery — to get fresh doughnuts for breakfast. Baggish was one of those old-time privately owned bakeries, not a chain, and they made the best poppy-seed rolls, crusty rye bread, sliced fresh, and…wonderful doughnuts.

I tried ALWAYS to be up in time to go with her. I risked his anger when I did this because he made it clear he wanted me available. But it was still better than the anger I encountered when I refused his approaches. The consequences for that were dangerous. So I tried desperately to wake up early and go with her. But sometimes, like this day, she was just too quiet.

Grabbing my clothes, I scrambled, but it was too late. The car pulled out of the driveway.

I froze. It would be a good twenty minutes before she’d get back with the doughnuts. I was an open target. My only hope was that he was still asleep.

On tiptoes, I stretched across the room toward my bed, almost in slow motion. Without a sound, I slipped under the covers.

Bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor in the other room and approached.

So many nights, especially in the summer, if it was Dad’s week to work 2nd shift, I loved to stare out of my bedroom window. I knew Mom was asleep on the couch as she watched TV. 

So, I would crawl out of bed, shut the door, and just curl up against my open bedroom window. Even on the hot days, there was usually a cool breeze at night. And often the smell of fresh-cut grass would waft inside.

The shaded living room windows of the house next door glowed a dim yellow. And through the darkness, I could see the various houses that backed up to our yard. A few windows here and there were lit up behind their curtains. But there was one house in particular I always looked for.

It was at the far end of our neighbor’s yard, sitting atop a retaining wall. The house faced the next street over, but I could see its back windows, and in particular, one small window on the second floor. It was probably a kitchen or pantry window, given its size. But the special thing about it was that it was always bathed in a soft purple light. I loved that window and would stare deeply into the peacefulness of that glow.

I think it was a plant light, as I could make out some racks and what looked like trays of plants in the window. It would make sense, then, that the light might glow at the same time every night for them. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I only know that I would stare into that purple light for a long time, and just get lost in it.

I LOVED its tranquility. Soaking up its calming effect, I wondered who lived there and what they were like. I wondered about the world on the other side of that purple light, and dreamt up all kinds of ideas for what it would be like to live in that house.

On those nights, it was my respite. My moment of peace and escape to another world, far, far from my chaos. Even now, whenever I see one of those purple lights somewhere at night, it stops me in my tracks and floods me with a sense of calm, peace, and serenity.

And then, there were the second-shift nights. Dad’s work schedule was such that one week he worked the day shift and the next week he’d work the second shift. Frankly, I loved those weeks.

If it were summer, we just had to deal with Dad being around until 1:30. That’s when he left for work, and we wouldn’t see him until the next morning.

If it were the school year, he would be asleep when we left for school. We’d say a quick good-bye, and that would be it until the next morning. Basically, during those weeks, we really didn’t see much of him until the weekend because of our school schedule.

And I made sure that unless I was dying, I didn’t stay home sick on the weeks he was on second shift. I only made that mistake once. He would be grumpy as usual when he got up, and then would start asking why you stayed home, and what you were doing to get better. After all, this was the person who, after I’d just finished throwing up, would tell me to go eat so I could get better quicker.

What were some of the nice things about second-shift weeks?